


oceanographer's choice

by spice_ghouls



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, anyways., don't worry about the major character death tag. He respawns, getting stabbed by your mind-controlled best friend! and other fun ways to start your day, look ma! I'm writing a multi-chapter angst fic instead of a oneshot angst fic for once!, no beta we die like schlatt, title is from the mountain goats song of the same name, why is badboyhalo's character tag his whole entire real name. what the fuck.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29792430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spice_ghouls/pseuds/spice_ghouls
Summary: When he hears the sounds of Phil entering his cabin, Technoblade doesn’t even look up from the work with which his hands are busied, and that’s his first mistake of the day.Or: Phil falls victim to the influence of the Egg. Its first command? To kill his meddlesome, pro-omelette best friend.
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 197





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [banging pots and pans together] mind the tags! mind the archive warnings! oh boy there sure is some Violence in this one! buckle up lads!

When he hears the sounds of Phil entering his cabin, Technoblade doesn’t even look up from the work with which his hands are busied, and that’s his first mistake of the day.

Years of loyalty can make a pretty, charmed fool of even the keenest of senses. Were he affording Phil the paranoid attentiveness he doles out in shrewd measure to anyone else, he might stand a chance of noticing something amiss. But – it’s  _ Phil _ . His focus stays on the potatoes he’s peeling.

When the winged man gives no greeting upon entry, hovering poised on the balls of his feet in the doorframe, Techno calls out to him, still not looking up.

“Hullo. How was your trip to L’Manburg?” he asks, peeling another long strip of skin from the potato in his hand.

“It was alright,” Phil replies. He is unmoving, hesitant where he stands, wings pressed close to his back.

“Did you see those vines they’ve got growin’ all over the place?” Techno asks, and Phil hums in the affirmative. “Dude, I didn’t think they’d be able to find a way to make the place any uglier than it already is, but Badboyhalo is like, somehow even more determined than I am to ruin the real estate value over there, and that’s  _ sayin’ somethin’ _ .”

“I thought the vines were kinda beautiful, actually,” Phil says, with an edge to his voice that makes Techno look over at him for the first time, and he opens his mouth to say something - before his eyes land on Phil, and he blinks in surprise.

“Wh - wait, is that a new haori? Looks nice. Red’s a good color for you - comin’ for my brand a little bit, I see,” he says, gesturing to the wine-red cloak draped behind him over the back of his chair. 

Phil is dressed in a similar cut and cloth of outfit to what he typically wears, with the notable departure that it’s red from head to toe, green striped bucket hat foregone in favor of a broader-brimmed red one. 

“So. You’re still feelin’ the same about the Egg, then?” Phil asks. “You’re sure?”

“What? Oh, the egg like Badboyhalo’s egg? Yeah, still, uh - still kinda weird,” Techno says, leaning forward in his chair a little bit. “I think it was legitimately tryin’ to brainwash me or somethin’ when he dragged me to go see it a little bit ago. Which, like, to be fair - not even the weirdest thing to happen on this server this  _ week _ . But still pretty weird. Why do you ask?”

Phil falls silent, and a few moments pass before he utters, low and dangerous - “That’s unfortunate.”

Here is how the story goes: Years ago, when a little fledgling god of blood was first learning how to fight, back in the dueling arenas of Hypixel, a trainer had told him that letting his guard down was the worst mistake he could make. 

_ You have to have the presence of mind to do better _ , the woman had said, dull edge of a training sword held millimeters from the young piglin’s throat as he lay in the dirt.  _ Your enemy will overtake you in the moment you let your vigilance slip. Always be at the ready. _ She had extended her hand, and pulled him easily to his feet, falling into a fighting stance as naturally as breathing.  _ Again.  _

When Phil pulls his sword on him, it’s not the presence of mind he was trained in that saves him. His conscious mind believes so wholeheartedly that Phil would never hurt him, that in a moment when he’s proven wrong, it short-circuits for a second, and he can feel some part of his world shatter, sharp in his throat. Instinct comes to his rescue, worn deep into muscle memory by years of combat, the primal desire to survive guiding his fingers to the hilt of his sword. Benihime comes down in a wide arc, but he’s on his feet with the Orphan Obliterator in hand faster than it can connect with the flesh of his throat, and Techno knows in an instant that he was striking to kill. Their blades connect with a terrible, clanging screech of metal that rings out through the silence of the arctic cabin. For a moment they are locked there, Techno’s arms straining with the effort of pushing the other’s sword back.

The soft, strangled noise of shock that escapes him is harmonized with by the outraged chorus of voices, screaming in overlapping cacophony in his mind - screaming in shock, in anger, for blood, for - /rainbowchat. Some remote part of him thinks,  _ really? At a time like this? Figures. _

“I really didn’t want to have to do this, mate,” Phil says, and for a moment there’s something like pity on his face, and then it’s - gone, with no trace left behind. He disengages, swinging the point of his sword around to slice at Techno’s left shoulder, and he’s just barely fast enough to bat away the attack with another ear-splitting clang of netherite connecting. He stumbles backwards, knocking his chair over in the process. 

“Phil - wait, stop - why?” he chokes out, hand raised - placating, entreating. 

In answer, Phil makes another sweeping attack, beating his sword off kilter, and Techno doesn’t quite recover quickly enough to block the stab towards his ribcage. Phil’s sword cuts into a weak point in the joining of his armor and finds purchase in flesh. He hisses in pain, forcing Phil back with a series of stabbing thrusts that he blocks handily - which is fine, that’s fine, he doesn’t want to hurt him, he just needs to get him away to have time to recover. He heaves a shuddering breath, putting his hand to the wound and bringing it away slick with blood. It’s fine. He’ll be fine. Distantly, bitterly, Techno recalls asking Phil to help him fix that break in his armor at some point. 

“Phil. Please, I don’t want to hurt you,” Techno pleads, voice low. 

They’ve sparred before - plenty, actually, in practice, out of boredom, or to settle silly bets. Never like Phil is fighting now. Never trying to exploit the other’s weaknesses, never with the intent to kill. Techno knows Phil, knows the way he fights, same as he knows the way he laughs and smiles and bakes bread on Sundays. In a serious fight, they’re an even match.  _ If this keeps up _ , he thinks,  _ one of us is not leaving this room alive. _

Phil attacks again, this time with a thrust of the blade towards his gut. Techno sidesteps, and then aims a sweeping kick at Phil that knocks him off his feet. He hits the ground with a thud, crying out on impact. Losing no time, Techno lunges forward, grappling the arm holding Phil’s sword, and he wrenches both of Phil’s wrists to pin them to the ground above his head with one hand. He holds his sword to Phil’s throat with his free hand. Phil goes still, breathing hard, and for a moment, there is silence. The voices cheer.  _ Thank god.  _

“Now. Why don’t you tell me what on  _ earth _ is goin’ on,” Techno demands. Phil laughs - low, mirthless, bordering on hysterical. 

“The Egg’s got a bit of a vendetta against you, mate. Sorry to be the one to break the news,” he grits out. 

“The egg,” Techno repeats flatly, and then - the pieces fall into place. The voice that had tried to speak to him back in the catacombs Badboyhalo had led him to, overgrown with red, spiderwebbing vines like arteries. The voice that had asked him what it was he  _ wanted _ . The dull, pulsing pull, power washing over him like the tide rolling in. The voices snapping him out of it. 

“You let it get to you. You’re brainwashed,” Techno says - an observation, not a question. 

“And you’re dead,” Phil replies, and faster than Techno can react, he stabs the knife hidden in the sleeve of his off hand into the arm pinning his wrists down. Techno jerks back, the pain immediate and white-hot. The weapon comes with him, left embedded in his forearm. He fumbles with his sword, bile rising in his throat from pain, but he’s faster than Phil, just barely. 

And - there’s the opportunity. For a split second, Phil is open, scrambling to regain his grip on Benihime. Killing him now would be easy, even through the pain. It would be  _ trivial _ , for someone like him with violence inveterate to his waking hours, who’s killed so many that the faces begin to blur together. He can hear them now, the voices, clamoring, begging for blood.

But Phil is only on one life. If he dies here, he’s gone. 

Techno has three yet remaining. 

The thing is - the world here believes in second chances, and third ones too. Three lives to a person. Three chances for the universe to remake you, without the fatal scars drawn by battle and happenstance across your body. Three. No more, no less.

But the story goes that there was once a man who wanted more than mortality. Who met the End in a world he traversed alone, and bartered with it - who traded three lives for a single immortal one that could not end by natural cause. Techno knows a great many stories, and he knows this one to be true.

Phil looks up at him, blood in his hair, and cold, imperious violence in his eyes. The decision is easy.  _ For you, the world, Phil. _

He lets the opportunity pass as quickly as it arrived, the voices and their demands held in abeyance. And in the next moment, Phil stabs him cleanly through the stomach. He pulls himself to his feet as Techno falls back in shock, crumpling against the floorboards, struggling to draw breath. 

He lays there, wheezing out quiet, keening noises of pain, gasping in cold air that tastes like copper. His fingers scrabble weakly at the blade embedded in his gut before realizing it’s useless, and letting them fall to his sides. Phil stares down at him indifferently, catching his breath. 

“I’m gonna kill it, Phil,” he promises, words strangled and muted, expression twisted in pain. “Just - just hold on. Gonna find a way to snap you out of it.”

“Oh, you  _ motherfucker _ . You don’t know when to shut up, do you, mate?” Phil snaps. He leans down again, so Techno can look him in the eye. “It didn’t have to be like this, you know. The Egg thought maybe you’d see reason if I talked to you. Cause we’re old friends, and all. I knew you were gonna be too fuckin’ stubborn, though.”

And this is it - the world upended. If he can’t trust Phil, then what’s left? His vision is blurring at the edges. Is he crying? Hah. Cringe. Good thing it’s just Phil here to see it happen. Well, Phil and the voices. He heaves another shuddering, excruciating breath. 

“It’s Iphigenia’s weddin’ day,” Techno mumbles, delirious. “Never thought you’d be Agamemnon.” His fingers are cold. 

“Who?” Phil asks, scoffing. Techno laughs weakly, blood bubbling past his lips. He laughs - because really. The Greeks knew the score before he did, that trust is always betrothed to marry betrayal. He should have listened, probably. He tries to force his blurry vision to focus, but all he can make out is the glint of the emerald earring Phil is wearing. 

At least he knows his fatal flaw, now. Might as well go down with the ship.

“I’ll find a way to forgive you,” he says, too quiet to hear even if Phil had been listening. Phil shakes his head, irritated. He grasps his sword by the hilt, and with one swift movement, yanks it out of him to return it to his scabbard. 

There’s a final, blinding moment of pain as the sword is ripped from him, and then blessedly, blessedly, the world goes black. 

-

He doesn’t know how much time passes between when he blacks out and when he respawns. An educated guess probably places it at a little over half an hour - stab wounds are nasty like that. Either way, he wakes up gasping for breath, clear air assaulting his lungs with the smell of pine and earth. His hands clutch at his stomach, unbidden, with the fervor of a man possessed. His fingers find only smooth skin, no evidence of injury. 

Techno sits up, running through a mental checklist of his passable first-aid knowledge for respawns (thank you, Hypixel duelling circuit). He's - fine, miraculously. Doesn't seem to be going into shock, which is maybe his first good luck of the day, given how violent of a respawn that was. He’s on the ground at the world spawn, without his armor, in just his plain white shirt and black trousers. Figures. His armor will have stayed behind with - well. 

He pulls himself to his feet and takes a slow breath in, and then out again, startled by the relief of painless, unlabored breathing. 

Focus. 

Phil is clearly under the influence of the egg - that much is evident. The thought brings with it a well of emotions that he  _ doesn’t have time for right now, no thank you _. He can think about it later, when the problem’s solved.  __

__

__

__

So, he has to destroy the egg.

__

__

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iphigenia's the daughter of Agamemnon in Greek myth, and he kills her to placate the anger of Artemis that would otherwise keep them from winning an important battle. The way the myth goes, she thinks she's headed to her wedding, and doesn't realize until she's at the altar that her father has betrayed her, and she's getting sacrificed so her dear old dad can go win the battle of Troy. 
> 
> This isn't the whole fic. Bro I PROMISE we will get to the comfort part of that hurt/comfort tag. There's a planned 3 chapters in this :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rolls up literally an entire week after I said I'd have this chapter posted, holding a smoothie* hey lol
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter: descriptions of violence and mind control.

The crux of the issue is _how_ to destroy it. He tries to take stock of everything he has to his name, as things stand, and the line of his mouth tightens into a grimace at the brevity of the list.

Hard work has kept him from having to operate without a safety net of careful planning and stockpiling since he was little, and that’s intentional. He does not miss having to rely on - other things, to secure his renown. And even in his current hour of desperation, he knows better than to try to rely on them again.

The rumors, snarled in hushed whispers between the combatants of Hypixel, went like this: the little piglin boy making a name for himself in the duelling circuit was cursed. Must have bartered away some part of his soul to be unconquerable - what else could drive a person to fight like that? The poor bastards who’d fought against him said that he was mad, bathed in blood and gone feral with the taste of it. God help you if you got in his way. 

Techno has heard the rumors, now, years in posterity, although at the time he was too far gone for them to reach his ears. He knows them to be only partly true. When fledgling divinity offers itself to you, even for a moment - _well_. There is glory to be snatched from between the teeth of madness, if you’re clever enough.

 _Now_ , though, he needs to focus. That’s somewhere to start.

Step one, he supposes, pragmatism ever a reliable anchor for the tumult of his thoughts: find an ender chest. Returning to his cabin for supplies isn’t an option, for obvious reasons. He’ll have to work with what he can access from anywhere. 

It’s the middle of the day, and by some blessed miracle, no one’s around to have witnessed his respawn - good, he does have a _reputation_ to uphold - but then, there’s no one around to lend him assistance, either. He stumbles up, footing uncertain and clumsy, thrown off balance by being completely unarmored for the first time in recent memory. Squinting in the sunlight, he makes his way past the towering dirt walls that sluice in zigzag patterns around the spawn area. 

He can see the craterous remains of L’Manburg from here, latticed throughout with red vines. Even now, this far from the heart of the thing, he can feel it tug at him - the pull of the egg, cloying and sickly-sweet on his skin. And the voices, usually a dull roar in the back of his mind, are _rioting_ , vicious in answer, a thundering drumbeat pounding up against his thoughts. But just like the last time he came here, they’re noisy enough to drown its influence out. 

_BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD_ **_,_ ** the masses cry, shouting over one another until the racket is unbearable. 

“I’m _workin’_ on it, chat, hold your horses,” Techno mutters under his breath, conciliatory, and it seems to appease the voices somewhat. They slip back into the quieter, ringing, “ _E E E E E E E E E_ ” noise they’re so fond of making. 

“Now,” Techno says to no one in particular, turning slowly in place to survey the landscape. “If I were an ender chest on this server, where would I be hidin’?”

There’s one in the community house, surely, now that that’s been rebuilt - the question is whether or not he can make it there without drawing the attention of any of the egg’s acolytes. He has no idea if they’ve got any kind of guard system set up for the areas overtaken by the vines, but the egg had seemed at least _somewhat_ sentient the one time he’d spoken with it, and if it really does want him, specifically, dead, then it’s not a possibility he can afford to take chances with. Especially not if everyone who’s under the egg’s influence is just as capable of detached, murderous violence as - 

_Not now._

He can think about Phil once the egg is gone. Plan first, execute second, deal with his own mess of emotions - later. Whenever. Just not now. 

“Does Church Prime have an ender chest, chat?” Techno asks, clearing his throat, and if his voice breaks at all, then it’s just the unfamiliarity to a newly-respawned body. He doesn’t have time for this. Luckily, the voices decide to be of actual assistance for once, and chime in. 

_YES_

_yes_

_E_

_yes_

_yeah_

_E_

“Oh, that’s wonderful. That’s wonderful,” Techno says. “They might still try to kill me even if they find me while I’m in the holy land, but I figure this way at least there’s, like, _some_ pretense of safety. And you can all stop spammin’ _yes_ now,” he continues, optimistically. To his dismay, the entirety of his cautious journey to the church is spent listening to a deluge of chat’s enthusiastic shouts of _“YES”,_ as they slowly peter back out into the usual spam. 

Being at the church is - odd. It’s a little disquieting, how out of place he feels, even with more pressing matters to occupy his mind. There’s nothing inherently unwelcoming within the towering marble walls of the building - he’s just patently aware that he doesn’t quite belong here. He chose his way in life long ago, and the holy comfort that others find within these walls was always too sterile, too bloodless for the path he treads. 

The only noises within the church are the quiet bubbling from the pool of holy water under the domed roof of the apse, and his footsteps. He makes his way up to the front of the pews, where he spies an ender chest sitting nestled in the hollow behind the pulpit. _Bingo._

Techno reaches in, shivering at the unnatural chill and faint smell of ozone emanating from the chest’s interior, and retrieves his diamonds. He wastes no time in crafting himself a new set of armor, quiet hammering noises echoing throughout the nave of the empty basilica. He finishes the set quickly, practiced hands flattening the materials out into sheets and then fitting them to his form. Really, he'd prefer netherite armor, but all things considered, he can make do with diamond. 

Idly, he wonders if it’s somehow blasphemous to use a church for such purposes. Probably not, but he wouldn’t know even if it were.

Better not to linger here, though, he decides. He gathers the armor pieces and his courage, and dons the full set as quickly as he can manage. As an afterthought, he crafts himself a diamond pickaxe, too, and uses it to pry up the ender chest to take with him. Just in case. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes aloud, and feels silly for it immediately, but whatever - might as well be polite, in case something out there is listening. “I’ll bring it back when I’m finished.”

He makes his way to the entrance to the spider spawner. The going is slow - damn these vines, winding their way over every available surface. They’re getting in his way so often he could _swear_ they’re doing it on purpose. After the third time nearly tripping over one, he finds himself wishing he’d taken the time to craft himself a diamond hoe to clear his path with, which is a desire he’s pretty sure has never occurred to _anyone_ before now. Desperate times, and all. 

He stands at the lip of the tunnel down into the earth, and the still air is oppressive around him. He peers down the long, dark tunnel as the voices howl with one accord, urging him to _just jump already, what are you waiting for, technocoward, technojump._ He ignores them, trepidation climbing his spine.

The thing is - Techno has known a lot of people in his lifetime. Phil is one of the most courageous and eminently loyal among them. So, the question troubles him: what makes him think that, if the willpower of a man of that caliber was felled by the egg, he can survive unscathed? _One_ previous encounter, where he’d never even gotten close enough to touch it? 

He recalls the vacant look in Phil’s eyes as he lay there, bleeding. The cold, detached derision. Years of the most steadfast friendship of his life were wiped blank by this thing. He cannot afford to underestimate it - not so long as both of their lives depend on his capability to destroy it.

But then - what kind of man is he, if he doesn’t at least try? What does he have left? 

He makes his decision. The air whistles in his ears as he drops down the tunnel and into the water below with an unceremonious splash, soaking him to the knee. He blinks, eyes adjusting to the dim light of the underground - and is immediately hit with a wave of energy so intoxicatingly strong that he has to choke down bile rising in his throat. 

The egg’s influence is so much more palpable down here, closer to its core. He can feel the weight of it on him like a physical force. The voices are even louder in an attempt to counterbalance, and for a moment it’s - too much. He forces breath in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to bring his swaying vision back into focus, to corral his senses back into some semblance of _sense_ . The cacophony of the voices, the power washing over him - neither are so gracious as to offer him any pause, so he makes himself catch up, clutching the hems of his sleeves in balled fists to temper the involuntary trembling of his hands. He takes one step forward, out of the water, and then another. He doesn’t have _time_ to be overwhelmed. 

The nausea follows him, but he smothers it with a vice grip, making his way down the winding tunnels of the cavern towards the catacombs where the egg is entombed. The pathway, hewn into stone and worn smooth by traffic, takes a sharp slope downward, and then opens up abruptly into a massive cavern. 

The place is _overrun._

Techno remembers the catacombs being thick with vines upon his previous visit to the egg, but what’s happening in the chamber now is nothing short of its own ecosystem. Growth spills over every surface of the ground, spiked red tendrils scraping up to meet the flora that dangles from the ceiling, and he feels the energy of the room close in like hands around his throat. His fingers come to rest on the pommel of his newly-forged diamond sword, and he suddenly thinks it a far more feeble defense than it had seemed in the daylight above. Careful discipline is the only thing that keeps him from jumping when the familiar rasp of the egg suddenly rumbles to life in his ears. 

**YOU HAVE RETURNED.**

He knows consciously that he’s hearing the sound aloud, but there’s an alarming immediacy to it in a way he’s only known with the chatter in his own mind - like it’s trying to worm its way into him and take root there. He barely resists the impulse to physically shake his head, as if that might dislodge it.

And chat does not care for that _one bit_. He clenches his jaw against the onslaught of the furious voices, and when he speaks, his words come out through gritted teeth. 

“Yeah. Sure have. Wasn’t really - the fondest, of you sendin’ my best friend to slaughter me in my own home. So I thought I’d pay you a visit to, uh,” he says, punctuating the pause by unsheathing his sword, “ _personally_ express my displeasure. With that one.”

There’s a laugh, low and scraping, and he feels the echo in his sternum. 

**COME CLOSER** , the egg entreats, and the voices cry out in protest - some screaming to stay away, some screaming for vengeance, and some screaming just for the sake of making noise. For a moment, he hangs in the balance between the two forces that seek to compel him, the egg urging him forward and the voices backward, before he puts one foot in front of the other and tips the scales.

He strides forward, clambering over the dense crimson foliage, towards where he can feel the energy radiating from like warmth from a hearth. He could _swear_ the vines are making way for him as he approaches, drawing him in. And then the hanging plants part, a curtain being drawn, to reveal -

He sucks a breath in through his teeth. 

The thing looks alive in the way that the ocean looks alive - like there’s something teeming in its depths, writhing slick and sharp-toothed just underneath the surface. The skin of it expands and contracts in hypnotic, dependable rhythm, the atria and ventricles of some great and terrible heart. He cannot help but think, unbidden, how beautiful it is. 

He’s not here to look at how... _alluring_ it is, though, the needling of the voices reminds him. Obstinately, he fixes the thought in his mind of the pain of bleeding out, and _makes_ himself grasp the correlation with what he’s seeing before him, forcibly connecting consequence and antecedent like live wires. 

Yeah, _no_. Nice try.

“You’ve probably figured this out by now - you seem, I dunno, _sentient_ enough to have - but I’m here to kill you,” he says, convincing himself of it. “Not exactly the task of the century to put two and two together on that one, to be fair, but whatever. Or - wait, I guess I don’t really know for sure whether or not you’re technically alive to _be_ killed in the first place. Though it’s kind of just semantics when it comes to, like, choppin’ things up into little bits until they stop talkin’ to you, I’m gonna be real.”

It makes a noise, heavy and amused, and the vibrations rumble through the stone under his feet.

 **WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?** the egg asks. 

Alright. Well, not the answer Techno was anticipating, and not an answer he cares for in the slightest. If it’s offering, if it’s so sure that it can’t be destroyed, then there must be some piece of the puzzle he’s missing. He weighs the danger, hefting his sword, and swallows down the bitter lump of dread sticking in his throat. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. He stabs, plunging his sword deep into the heart of the egg. 

Or at least, that’s what he tries to do. The moment the tip of his sword breaks the surface of the egg, a searing pain erupts in his hand, travelling white-hot like lightning up his arm and through the rest of his body, hissing and burning as it goes. He yanks back his sword with a cry of shock, stumbling away from the egg, and the weapon goes clattering to the ground.

“Thorns,” he observes bitterly, willing himself to stay on his feet. The muscles in his hand seize in the aftershocks. The egg is quiet, seemingly indifferent to his pain, before speaking up again. 

**IT DOES NOT HAVE TO BE LIKE THIS. YOU ARE MEANT TO JOIN US.**

Techno shivers under the force of its words, each syllable battering at his willpower, and some small, wretched part of him craves to admit it: it sounds _so nice_ . Wouldn’t it be wonderful, to just _not_ have to do this? It’s such a herculean effort, and he’d never planned on being the hero of this story. He knows what happens to heroes. What business has he, trying to slay this thing? 

It would be so easy. He braces for the pushback, but for an odd moment, the voices quiet. Not like they’re no longer speaking, but like they’ve been placed on a dimmer switch, muted by a new presence in his mind. The Egg gives him a moment to consider, and that’s so kind of it, so gracious. He can’t help but feel indebted - it’s only reasonable.

**I ASKED YOU BEFORE. I WILL ASK YOU AGAIN: TELL ME WHAT IT IS THAT YOU WANT, AND I WILL GIVE IT TO YOU.**

He finds the words honeyed on his tongue before he has time to stop them spilling from his lips, like they’re being pulled out of him by a thread. 

“I want my best friend back,” Techno says, and in the moment, he is - _so_ tired. 

**I CAN GIVE THAT TO YOU** , the Egg rumbles.

And then he sees it. The image paints itself in broad strokes over his vision - not like he’s watching a movie, but like he’s suddenly standing somewhere else, dumped unceremoniously upon the scene in media res. He’s back in his armor, back in his cabin, and everything’s in place. His chests line the walls in their neat rows. The hearth crackles warmly, and - and Phil’s there, sitting by the fire reading. 

There are few things that the Egg could have offered him that would have swayed his resolve, but in the moment, the peace is just good. Overwhelmingly, irresistably so. It sinks into him, filaments nesting in the crevices of his mind, and he lets it ease the weariness of his bones. It’s quiet - really quiet, he realizes absently, but he can’t put his finger on the noise that’s missing. 

The Phil in the vision looks up at him, smiling, and - hah, that’s nice. A relief, if he’s being honest. The last time he’d seen Phil, he hadn’t looked at him like that. 

He’d looked at him like -

Like -

 _The floorboards, wet underneath his back with his own blood, and breathing hurts hurts_ ** _hurts_** _, he can’t move without pain and breathing requires moving. The ceiling is blurry and Phil is looking at him and he has never seen hatred like that in his eyes, not directed at him, not ever. And, god, isn’t it funny - some feeble part of him still manages to be glad that if someone has to see him like this, that it’s him, that his_ _friend is here with him at the end, and -_

The panic hits him, knots itself together in his gut like an anchor rode. This is _wrong_ , and that thought meets vicious resistance as it forces its way to the forefront of his mind. 

There is, for a moment, a terrible splitting sensation. When it passes, he watches, horrified and helpless, as his own hands drop his sword to the ground. He is conscious but not in control, he realizes, like the part of him that wants nothing to do with the egg is confined to the backseat of a brain and body that something else is piloting. 

Techno is out of options. 

Unless - 

Unless he breaks an old promise to himself. One that he had sworn he would never go back on. One he made for his own good. But he has a newer promise to fulfill, one made to someone whose wellbeing he’s already decided once today that he cares for more than his own. His words echo in the cramped recess of his mind that he still has control over. “ _I’m gonna kill it, Phil. Just hold on. Gonna find a way to snap you out of it.”_

For all that the blood god is the god of blood spilt by the sword, he is god of blood of the covenant, too. Promises made to himself are one thing, but he will not break this oath - even if he must lose himself to do it. With the strength that is left to him, he forces his eyes closed, and reaches down into a well within him, one he has sealed shut and left untouched for years. 

Here is how the story goes, as it is whispered around campfires and passed between travellers servers over: not many people survive the channeling of power necessary to ascend to godhood. Even fewer survive the aftermath. The ones that _do_ are those who are clever enough to steal only what they need from the universe, and wise enough to only ever use a fraction of a fraction of that once they have it. The rest are lost to madness. 

There is a lone, petrifying moment of silence in which Techno thinks it hasn’t worked, that he has left this volatile reserve untapped for so long that it has dried up. 

And then the voices roar, ear-splitting and thunderous, back into his mind. _BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD, BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD, BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD_ , and it’s the same as that first time years ago, white-hot light behind his eyes and copper on his tongue and divinity swelling the lumens of his veins to bursting, _BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD, BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD_ , and the egg is expelled from his mind, a transplant rejected, _BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD_ , this vessel is taken, find another, _BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD_ , and he is no longer in control but neither is the egg. Thank god, neither is the egg - and at least this is a nostalgic shade of possession. 

Techno stands to his full height, and when he speaks, the chorus speaks with him in a thousand echoes, the full legion bleeding over. 

“ _Change of plans_ ,” he says, and places down the ender chest he brought with him. The periphery of his vision is mottling in shades of crimson, and he doesn’t know how long he has before he is lost, but it isn’t long.

 **WHAT IS THIS?** the egg hisses, and Techno laughs.

“ _You asked me what it was that I wanted, when I first came in here. That offer still open? ‘Cause I thought of something else,_ ” Techno growls, and the viscera of his throat is raw with the sound. He yanks the ender chest open and retrieves its contents, grains of soul sand spilling over his fingers, the dark line of a skull’s jaw balanced in his hand. 

**ANYTHING, ANYTHING, TELL ME AND I WILL GIVE IT** , the egg replies, and for the first time, the sound wavers, tempered by a note of fear. 

Techno slams the skulls down in a line onto the sand, and the familiar high, gruesome note of a wither spawning rings out, followed by a second. There are people now, at the back of the chamber, but it’s too late, they are too late to stop him, he is being transformed, burning up from within, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t take the egg out with him.

“ _I’ve been kinda cravin’ an omelette_ ,” he says, and the first explosions sound before him. They are not loud enough to compete with the roar of the voices now, but he sees them, watches them erode the egg in craterous chunks, and it’s enough.

His control lingers for a moment - flickers - and then the red consumes his vision entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ABSOLUTELY cannot see L'Manberg from the world spawn, it's literally across the map, but I'm ignoring that for a fun little writing trick I'm calling "fuck you, my city now". Also, I have no idea if church prime actually has an ender chest, but I asked my twitter groupchat and they said "prolly lol" so Now It Does. Thank you rhgc. Also, don't worry, Techno's not dead.  
> but also don't take that as indication that we're done with the Bad Things That Happen in this fic. Case in point: next chapter is Phil POV :)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gonna update approximately "whenever my college workload enables me to do so", so probably in a week or less. if you want to speed up this process, feel free to leave a comment or kudos here, or come hit me up on tumblr at @spice-ghouls or on twitter at @enbytechnoblade - I am so unapologetically thirsty for validation.
> 
> shoutout to rhgc and the chasing stardust discord my beloveds


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